A Breath of Thin Air

Thursday, June 25, 2015

Denali’s
Cassin Ridge is a true American classic. I have been intrigued by this 8000’
(2440m) ridge since hearing about it in 2004. It carves a direct line, up
technical terrain, to the summit of North America’s tallest peak…what’s not to
love! My wife of 8.5 years and I were back in Alaska for our third
attempt.

Attempt #1
June 2012: First, we climbed the Harvard
Route on Mt Huntington, and then bumped directly over to Denali. After skiing from the summit (20,320’) via the
West Buttress route, and spending a total of 26 days on the glacier we were
fried from continuous bad weather and inaccurate forecasts.

Mark wearing his "grumpy pants" after concluding we could not climb the Cassin for the second time.

Attempt #2
July 2013. First, we were successful on the Mooses
Tooth’s West Ridge. Then, straight down to Juneau for Mt. Fairweather, a hard-earned success
that took 17 days. Then back to the Cassin. We returned to the 14,000' camp, waited,
acclimatized, and waited some more. After 10 days of heavy lifting and skiing
around we were poised to go. Upon arriving to the access couloir we
discovered the route had melted out from record high temps that season. Rocks
showered down the access couloir even during the coldest part of the day. Not
willing to jump into this firing range, we bailed again, with tails between our
legs. Another $4000 blown on flights and permits. The score was Denali 2,
Smileys 0.

High camp on the Mt Logan. photo Jed Porter

Last year
we directed all finances and time to Mt
Logan…and failed. Following that sucky and scary effort, Janelle underwent
two hip surgeries, in July and Sept respectively. She had been dealing with
ever increasing hip pain over the last two years. The MRI revealed tore labrums
in both hips due to overuse. This was the heavy price of competing at the World Cup level in ski mountaineering. Thankfully, a full recovery was predicted, yet
it would take 10 months to achieve. July 2014, Janelle walked into the hospital
and came out in a wheelchair. 10 months of PT, icing, constant passive motion
machine, tears and frustration, truckloads of support from friends and family, and
10 gallons worth of Colorado Bulldogs brought us to May. A decision had to be
made; do we put the hips to the ultimate test by trying the Cassin a third
time?

Despite the
PT’s conservative recommendation, Janelle was game. She trained like a crazy
person for the next 8 weeks.

Alpenglow on Mt Foraker at 3:30AM

Choosing
the best strategy to get to the base of the Cassin Ridge is a tough decision. Each
option requires time, motivation, and exposure to significant hazards. If you
choose to acclimatize on Denali, 99% of climbers (48.6% of all stats are made
up on the spot) make the five-day trek up to the 14,000’ camp, hang out for a
week, and maybe go to the summit via the W. Buttress. To get to the base of the
Cassin from the 14,000’ camp you must climb up to 16,000’ on the West Rib route,
and descend to around 11,500’. Daunting? Yes. This style takes around 10-14
days to complete, assuming you are very strong, stoked, and blessed with
great weather.

On our past
attempts we tried that style. We hate it. Getting everything to the 14,000’
camp is a huge effort. From there, it takes significant mental fortitude to ignore
the bad weather, the wildly inaccurate weather forecasts, the scared naysayer
climbers, and stay stoked for the big objective. Often, eager Cassin suitors do
not even step foot on the route.

Nothing like a sit start to squeeze out every drop from this route. Photo: Janelle Smiley

It plays
out like this. You go to the summit via the West Buttress and return to the 14,000’
camp. Stoke for the Cassin is quickly lost as the forecast “doesn’t look that
great.” The smell coming from your nether region is reminiscent of a week old
tuna sandwich, left in a hockey bag, that’s been marinated in baby vomit. The call-of-the-shower, French fries, and flush toilets grows louder and
louder. Once a group of summitters (noun: person who has stood on a mountain’s
highest point) come down and start talking about ice cream, garden salads and adult
beverage consumption…you can kiss motivation goodbye.

This style also
requires many many days of high pressure. Good weather to get to 14,000’, good
weather to acclimatize, good weather to climb the Cassin, good weather to
descend, and finally good weather to fly off. That’s a pretty tall order in the
Alaska Range.

Mark pulls through the short but steep crux in the Japanese Couloir. Photo: Janelle Smiley

We were
tried of failing, and tired of trying to stay mentally tough at the
14,000’-blackhole-vortex-of-climbing-stoke. This year we changed our
strategy. We would acclimatize off Denali. So I went down to Ecuador to guide a
Cotopaxi trip, and Janelle went to Colorado and climbed/skied 14ers for eight-days
prior to flying up to Alaska. I flew straight from Quito and Janelle from
Denver. This was just enough time at altitude to make us feel “juiced up”, and confident
to go straight in.

Friday,
June 12, The best air service for climbers in the range, Talkeetna Air Taxi, landed us on a very hot Kahiltna Glacier. Reports from the mountain claimed over a meter of fresh snow in the
last two days. Walking through the “Valley of Death” after that much snowfall
was extra unnerving with increased avalanche danger. We decided to burn a day
before going up the V.o.D. Allowing the avy danger to chill out. [When
discussing the route around loved ones, I recommend saying, “V.o.D.” opposed to
Valley of Death. Additionally, only 4
people have been killed in this Valley. Compared to the estimated 20+ that have
slipped to their death on the Autobahn, on the West Buttress Route].

Mark Smiley & Matt Tuttle nearing the top of the Japanese Couloir. Photo: Matt Parker

Less than
three hours of sled hauling, with rando race skis, brought us to our advanced
basecamp at the base of Ski Hill. Some call this the 7,800’ camp, my gps told
me 7,600’. At this camp 99% of climbers advance left up Ski Hill, but we would
take a fairly hard right into the NE Fork of the Kahiltna (V.o.D.). Rolling
into camp we noticed a very welcome trail already kicked in the V.o.D. by a
guided group climbing the West Rib. This gift would save hours of trail
breaking. Things were looking good.

Saturday,
we slept in, sorted gear, made pancakes, and tried to keep cool while our
nerves tried to psych us out with negative “what ifs”.

Sunday
morning at 3AM we were walking up the V.oD. Rich pink and purple alpenglow blanketed
tops of the surrounding mountains. The winds were light as we hiked quickly up
this mega terrain trap. Janelle’s pack weighed 36lbs and mine weighed 41 (with
crampons and tools, not including our 50m 7.8
Sterling Photon rope), which allowed for swift travel. Over the next five hours,
on an established trail, we gained 4,400’ over 5 miles. Passing by the start of
the West Rib route, one of my legs punched through a completely inconspicuous crevasse.
The hidden trapdoor opened, and I fell flat on my face and hands without
warning. Janelle instinctively pulled the rope tight as I wallowed backward to
the safe side. This wake-up call reminded me that Alaska is the real deal, much
like the honey badger.
These mountains don’t blink an eye when they kill you, try to kill you, or let
you pass by unscathed.

Reaching the top of the couloir, we touch the Cassin Ridge proper for the first time.

Cresting
the final roll to the bergschrund, our jaws dropped when we saw three 2-man
tents pitched side by side. Were we about to get behind a Korean-style assault
of the route? Thankfully not, just six other climbers queued up and eager to
send during this great weather window. Two of the six people were women gunning
for the very difficult Denali Diamond route. [side note: Last I heard, they had sent the crux and were on their way
to the summit, a first female ascent. Congrats!]. Two guys were still in
their tent, and the remaining two guys, Matt Park and Matt Tuttle (aka the
Matts), were eagerly packing up. The main problem with
multiparty ice climbing is that the highest party inevitably sends down ice
chunks on the parties below. With six eager people do we draw straws? Who would go first? We used a
mixture of down home politeness, forward momentum, and Euro aggression and took
the lead, telling the Matts to pass us ASAP.

The
entrance of the route is the 1000’ Japanese couloir. For most parties this is
simul-climbing terrain, and is dispatched quickly. We climbed three 50 meter
pitches together, placing one screw per pitch, and regrouped at the base of the
first crux. I hadn’t been ice climbing much last winter, so I moved
deliberately, making sure to keep “the pump” at bay while working through the
two 80° sections. Ice tools have a tendency to push the climber back, making this
80° slope feel like 90°. With only 5 screws total, I had to use them sparingly.
My pack felt extra heavy as I pulled through the near vertical sections.

Snow the Cowboy Arete can be light and fluffy or bulletproof.

For the
past hour we had been showering the Matt’s with ice. I wanted them to be able
to pull through this crux sans-icefall-from-us, so we chopped a tiny ledge and
chilled out. From there to the top of the Japanese Couloir it was more “hero
alpine ice” simul-climbing. Near the top, Janelle’s elbow got beaned by a chuck
of ice, causing her fingers to temporarily go numb. No bueno. I thought about
yelling down the movie
quote, “if you can dodge a wrench, you can dodge the ice”, but I held my
tongue. Good thing she’s tough like nails. No tears, just good ol’ fashion
suck-it-up and keep going.

Simul-climbing along the Cowboy Arete. Photo: Matt Parker

Once on the
ridge proper in the warm sun, we brewed up for some time…for three hours to be
exact. This gave time for Matt’s to brew up and pass so they could get to 17,000’,
their goal for the day. This siesta also allowed for needed acclimatization and
hydrating. Normally on big alpine climbs this type of chill session is
borderline sacrilege. But the forecast was perfect, and we
knew our acclimatization strategy was on the aggressive side of the spectrum. The
slower pace was just fine. Besides, we had five fat days of food and seven days
of fuel, and eight pounds of camera gear, so we were grossly over-equipped to break any Colin Haley speed records.

Next up was
the first rock crux. Janelle’s lead. I suggested, in vein, that she ditch her
pack and we could haul it. She was determined to climb this pitch in style, and
she did just that. I was super stoked for her. The upgraded hips were treating
her right.

Brewing up with a hang kit makes everything easier. Camp 1 at 14K'

I jumped
out in front again for the entire Cowboy Arête. The Matt’s had put in the
booter for this section. It is 100 times easier to follow a booter than
establish one, so we were thankful for their hard work. The sun was nearing the
horizon as we pulled into camp. We had gone from 7,600’ to 14,000’ in 17.5
hours. Nothing like starting off with a bang! Fearing a total meltdown after
such a big effort, we ate and drank like it was our job.

Day 2 – We
slept in, cause why not? There was no wind and the sky was cobalt blue. It was
our turn for trail breaking, so we left just before the Matts. The glacier
above was easy cruising. There are two main rock bands on the Cassin. Each
required climbing up a mixture of rock, snow, and ice. All on moderate
technical terrain. We made our way up to, and through the first rock band.
There was a bit of route finding, but between a good Suunto
altimeter watch, the supertopo, and
perfect weather, we were able to pick our way through the rock band without
issues.

Janelle works up through the first rock band.

Around
15,400’ we pulled over for another epic brew-up session…a two-hour siesta. I
was blown away we were doing this. Hanging out, shootin’ the bull with the
Matts, in the middle of another perfect climbing day. It was awesome. The
Matt’s took back trail breaking duties, we
drafted. Getting into the second rock band was the route finding crux. After putting
our four heads together we choose correctly and climbed, in my opinion, the
best pitch of the route. Because we carried a 50-meter rope, we had to use the
entire thing, plus another 20 meters of simul-climbing to make the pitches go
faster. Our light rack dictated long run-outs, but the climbing was moderate,
with several big footholds to keep our weight over our feet whenever necessary.
I had to pinch myself. We were in the middle of a true American classic alpine
route, had great weather, and my wife and I were operating like a Swiss watch. It
was a great moment.

A decision
had to be made near the top of the second rock band. Go right to a 5.6 slab, or
left to harder mixed climbing? We followed the booter left and found engaging mixed
climbing. Janelle was simul-climbing below me, requiring me to pull the hardest
moves without a proper belay. It was not the smartest move, but I was feeling
adventurous. At the top of this great pitch was a large rock horn, perfect for
slinging, to belay Janelle through the hard parts.

Janelle pulling through the alternate mixed terrain

We chopped
out our second tent platform at 16,500’. It had taken 11 hours to get through
the two rock bands, including a 2+ hour brew up and an hour of waiting below
the crux pitch. We were feeling good about having the technical climbing below
us, but the pressing question would be answered tomorrow. Did we acclimatize
“enough” in Colorado and Ecuador to reach the summit the next day?

Janelle
started coughing as we crawled into our two-person sleeping bag. As we tried to
warm our ice blocks by playing footsie, her cough worsened. Had we pushed this
ascent too fast? HAPE can be fatal. Descending from here would be a nightmare
with only one 50-meter rope and a light rack. No railing in the lungs, no pink
sputum, no headache. I think she will be okay. Four ibuprofen each and we went
to sleep.

Looking down the ridge from 19K'

Not wanting
to push our luck with this weather window, we were climbing again by 9:00AM. The
previous evening, the Matts had broken the trail to 17,000’. This section was
hardest trail breaking of the route…for them. We were sooo thankful that they
put booter in. We took a rest break at their camp and learned it took them 2.5
hour to break the trail. It took us an hour. Booters make all the difference. Once again
they handed us the booter baton, which we would take it to the top.

The ridge
flattens into a broad face above 18,000’. We felt the thin air big time, forcing
a snails pace. This was the price we had to pay for such an aggressive ascent
style. Remember we had launched from 7,600’ roughly 60 hours prior! Had we put in the time at the 14,000’ camp for
over a week, like our previous attempts, we could have moved twice as fast. Spend
a week of time, festering on a glacier, hoping for good weather...all to shave
3 hours of moving time between 17,500 and the summit…not worth it.

Paying the price for a speedy acclimatization schedule at 19,500'

As we
neared the Kahiltna Horn, the reality of completing the route took hold. Our
third attempt would be successful. I teared up a little. Cause I’m sensitive. Very
in touch with my two feelings. This feeling was the happy feeling, opposed to
the other feeling, yucky.

We dropped
the packs at the Horn and touched the top. The wind on the summit ridge was
ripping around 40mph. The exact ambient air temp + windchill = stupid cold. This
was Janelle’s 2nd time to the summit, and my 4th, so we
high-fived, got a few photos and were off three minutes later. Proving once
again that technical climbing is so much more about the route than the summit.
Yet the summit is great because it is so definitive. I touched this spot, now I
get to go downhill.

70ish hrs after leaving 7600' we were on top!

Descending
the West Buttress took forever on foot as the wind continued to rip. We made it
to the 14,000’ camp that evening. Tired and totally stoked we had pulled off a
huge route in such a brief total time. The following afternoon we headed for
the airstrip, stopping at friends camps along the way. Eating other people’s
food, pooping in other people’s CMC’s (yeah that right, we did it, and it was
awesome…stealth dump and run). The next morning, 7 days after arriving on the
glacier, we flew back to Talkeetna.

When the
weather is good in the Alaska range, big climbs can be completed in a timely
fashion. All told, combining our three attempts, we have spent 33 days of our
lives waiting to climb the Cassin Ridge. Now it is done, and it was totally
worth the wait.

Wednesday, July 30, 2014

Ever since Janelle and I
started our project to climb
North America’s Fifty Classic Climbs four and a half years ago, we have heard
this question countless times from climbers that know the book: “What about Hummingbird
Ridge?” To which we reply, “I guess we will cross that bridge when we come to
it.”

The entire ridge as seen from the East, from 8,000' to 19,554'

That bridge crossing
finally came last month. In October, we began planning for this expedition. We
recruited two great climbers and friends to join: Jed Porter, who is
a fellow IFMGA certified mountain guide, and Reiner Thoni, a ski
mountaineering national champion and my Atomic Waymaker partner.
Jed had joined us for our climb of Mt. Fairweather, and Reiner joined us for both Mt. Robson and Mt. Alberta. We were
thrilled to have such a strong team to tackle the hardest, most daunting climb
on this crazy list that we have devoted so much time and energy to.

Pre trip food prep in Whitehorse, YT

In any expedition of this
scale, the amount of pre-trip work is almost greater than the climb itself, so
we divided the workload. Janelle handled transportation logistics, Jed took on
route planning, I worked on trip financing and sponsorship, and Reiner
researched the route’s grim history.

In 1965 the Hummingbird
Ridge saw its first, and only, successful ascent. The late American hard-man
Mugs Stump and his crew took 10 days to climb the lower section of the route
(which the 1st ascent party bypassed) before
bailing. In May 1987, two Canadian elite alpinists, Dave Cheesmond and Cathy
Freer, were killed while traversing a section of the route called the Shovel
Traverse. No one knows how they died, but cornice failure was the likely
culprit. Their bodies still hang in place on the ridge. Later, an entire
Canadian group of three were swept off the route by an avalanche, killing one
of them.

Allen Steck photo from the first ascent, 1965

Allen Steck, was one
of the six men on the only successful expedition. He is also one of the authors
of our Project’s inspiration, Fifty Classic Climbs of North America. Now 87
years old, he still climbs. We got to talk about the first ascent with him at
his home in Berkley. Here is the run down: 4,000’ of fix rope, sixteen 40 lb.
(17.5Kg) loads, 15 gallons of fuel, cotton and nylon tents, expedition style,
several 1.5” thick 4’ tall aluminum stakes, a steel shovel from the hardware
store, and a month of hard work completed by six super hard-men.

The flight in is always a highlight

Having drunk the new
school alpinism kool-aid, we decided to tackle the route in alpine style, which
meant attempting the route in one push, with all our supplies on our backs from
bottom to top. This decision was dictated by a number of reasons:

1. Alpine style is what we
are good at.

2. Our equipment and food
is significantly lighter than theirs was 49 years ago.

3. Hauling loads up and
down would expose us to more objective danger of rock/ice fall and cornices,
whereas alpine style would lessen this exposure.

To make a stressful
situation more stressful, Janelle’s hip pain was getting worse. For the last
two years she has been dealing with pain that comes and goes when she is active
(which is always). The pain stopped her from competing in all but three ski
mountaineering races this past winter. She also won three races this year,
batting 1000 [husband bragging]. Being American, she avoided going to a doctor
for a proper diagnosis at all costs until about three months ago. The MRI
revealed labral tears in both hips—an injury that is not a total
show stopper, but if it goes untreated can lead to arthritis. A cortisone shot
gave her about three weeks of relief for her ski races. We were hoping that
another cortisone shot right before the expedition would provide that same
relief. A prudent course of action? Not at all. But since when have we claimed
to be prudent?

Had to move at night as it was too hot during the day.

We all flew into
Whitehorse, Yukon on June 22. Reiner’s friends, Whitehorse locals James and
Samantha, opened up their home to us as an expedition staging area. Friends
like this are critical in any expedition. They graciously loaned us their car,
garage, bedrooms, food, local knowledge, and countless favors. We were able to
return about 2% of the favors with some light duty babysitting and dish
washing.

Weather delays kept us in
Whitehorse for three days. On the fourth day we drove to Silver City, home of
the two-plane gravel-runway airport known as Icefields Discovery. We
would have to fly in two trips. Jed and Reiner won the coin flip and flew in
first. When the pilot returned for us, he said the snow was too soft to land
again until the next morning. Janelle and I spent the night in the hanger, and
the following morning flew in.

Gearing up at Icefields, we had 855 lbs of gear and food.

These flights are always a
trip highlight. We had about an hour in the air. It was amazing. Lightly
overcast, but still good views all around. To say that Mt. Logan is “big” is
similar to saying that there are “many” stars in the sky. This mountain is the
biggest mountain in the world if measuring by sheer mass. I have climbed Denali
three times, and that mountain makes you feel small. Logan made me feel small,
with the additional sinking feeling that it was going to try really hard to
kill me. The glacier was broken to the point where the pilot landed us far out
on the Seward Glacier. It was a 6.5 mile slog to the base of the route.

In the cool of that same
night, with eight fat days of food and fuel, we started walking to the base of
the route. The glacier at 6,500’ was warm and we plunged through breakable
crust for 5 hours to the base of the entrance couloir. The fun level was low.
Snow had started blowing and visibility was reduced significantly. As we pulled
up to a possible camping site, Janelle threw down her pack, sat down, buried
her face in her gloves and started crying. The cortisone shot had not worked.
Carrying a pack made her hip pain spike to unbearable levels. Fully Gore-Tex-ed
up, we discussed our options in the driving wet snow. We would camp here, wait
for cold temps, and check out the access couloir the next morning. Janelle was
not ready to throw in the towel. Maybe if she was “just climbing” it would not
hurt as much as glacier slogging had. The following morning was still too warm
to climb, and the forecast was going to crap. We decided to return to our
basecamp.

Making another lap to adv base camp.

Arriving at the basecamp,
Janelle declared, “Well boys, I’m out,” as another wave of emotion hit her. So
much time, build up, preparation, training, all being stripped from her by a
nagging overuse injury and a failed hail-Mary-cortisone-shot-solution. Now she
would have to fly out and wait in Whitehorse for weeks while her husband tried
to climb this infamous death route. Not ideal. She flew out with all our
basecamp luxury items, omitting the need to do an extra $800 flight. Jed,
Reiner, and I returned to advanced basecamp with an additional 12 days of food
and fuel. We now had 20 days of provisions and no need to return to basecamp.
Ideally, we would reach the summit in 7-8 days of intense climbing, descend the
East Ridge route in a day, and fly out from that completely different location.

Three days went by with
warm temps. During the heat of the day the entire valley erupted with
avalanches and rock fall off of every aspect. We tried to sleep, but it didn’t
come easy hearing how active everything can get when the temps rise above
freezing. Angry birds on the iPhone, and coming up with my next business idea
passed the time slowly. The unknown route conditions weighed heavily on all of
us. Would we be able to pass? Did we have enough food? Was this acclimatization
schedule too aggressive? Double cornices. Oh the double cornices, what to do
with them.

Time to get in the blast zone for 4000'

After a 10 minute walk up
further up the glacier from our advanced basecamp, Reiner and I discovered a
more inviting access couloir than the original party had used to the gain the
ridge. It would reduce rock fall and cornice fall potential. There was a big
serac near the top of the face, yet this alternative route still seemed like a
better bet.

Thousands of feet went by quickly climbing unroped in the runnel spines, while spotting for rock fall.

Finally, it was cold
enough and we launched with 9 fat days of food and fuel. Pack weight hovered
around 55 lbs. Fast and light style was metamorphosing into slowish and exposed
style. We climbed from 8,000’ to about 12,200’ up icy runnels in the face, free
soloing the lower 2/3rds, and pitching out the upper part in 12 pitches. The
ice runnels protected well. With only one ice screw to place during the 60
meter pitch, we were thankful for easy ice climbing. The pack weight was
crushing, and our calf muscles got a good punishing. There were a couple
pitches that got up to 75 degrees, with a little business time climbing.

Finally gaining the
legendary ridge itself, we took our first real break. I had drunk four ounces
of water in the last 12 hours—stupid. Moving along the ridge was slow going.
The snow was deep and loose. The ice was airy and unstable. The rock was broken
and hard to protect. Every foot was hard earned. As we climbed a mixed pitch of
loose rock and thin ice, natural rock fall dislodged from the buttress just
above Reiner and I, showering us with brick-sized rocks. One hit me directly on
the helmet, leaving a sizable dent.

Reiner on the last pitch of the runnel. Jed plowed through a cornice to gain the ridge.

Jed led the last pitch of
the day, which took him to the ridge crest. As he plowed through the loose snow
up to the ridge crest, a 5-foot long cornice broke at his feet. The ridge was now
clear in this one spot and he climbed to the other side and belayed us up.
Having now been on the move for 18 hours, we were tired. The ridge was
extremely steep on both sides. We set to work to make a tent platform. Two
hours of shoveling, hacking, and ice chipping later we had our platform, so we
pitched the tent and crashed out in our sleeping bags. Our tent platform scene
resembled a photo I saw during a slide show from Steve House and Vince
Anderson’s Nanga Parbat ascent, with the tent perched right on the ridge, and
an area hacked out just big enough to fit the tent…and that made me feel
hardcore.

Looking down from camp 1

The following day we
rested. It was a nervous rest, knowing that we lay on the doorstep of the
lethal Shovel Traverse, and that the glacier lay thousands of feet below.
Rappelling that distance with only one 60-meter rope would take forever if we
had to bail.

4AM, rapping from a ballard

Day three, we got up
around 3a.m. The travel was painfully slow, as we had to dig for every tool and
foot placement. Thankfully, the digging exposed solid ice. Thinking back, the
climbing on the ridge was quite good when it comes to adventure alpine
climbing. I’m no pro mixed climber, but I’d guess the mixed climbing was in the
M4-5 range, similar to the crux pitches on Mt Huntington’s Harvard Route. Up and
down, over little snow bumps we progressed. Jed broke a second cornice as he
descended a snow roll. Thankfully, I was in position to arrest this mini fall
with no consequence.

Jed on one of several mixed pitches. All snow was faceted and had to be removed.

From snow to rock and back again

I was on the sharp end for
the final rock pitches that ascended back onto the snow. I was tied into the
middle of the rope, leaving the two ends to be tied one to Jed and one to
Reiner. There was a definitive high point I traversed towards. I placed a
really crappy picket to keep some remote sense of security as we simul-climbed
higher through the thigh deep powder. Roughly 15 feet before reaching the high
point, about 10 feet below the ridge crest, I was post-holing sideways. With no
warning the ground all around me, including what I was standing on, dropped
out. I was riding a 15-foot cornice into the abyss. I landed on a
shoulder-width ledge, unharmed, after what seemed like a forever fall. From the
other side Reiner felt no pull on the rope, and thought I was gone forever. I
got up quickly, peaked over the ridge, and gave them proof of life. I was
rattled.

The climbing was quite good, adventurous, and committing.

Had to ditch the 50 pound pack to get rowdy on this near vertical mixed pitch.

Standing there, snow
blowing around me, looking out along the double corniced ridge in front of me,
I felt very very empty. Four and a half years of climbing classics, trying to
climb them all, and this is where it had brought me. To succeed on this route,
to succeed on our Project, I would have to play cornice Russian Roulette. Only
in this game I’d have to pull the trigger five times with the cornice gun held
to my head.

Pawing through loose snow was so slow. We needed a shovel from Ace Hardwear

I hate quitting. I hate
thinking of myself as a sissy. I hate thinking other people will think I am a
sissy. I wanted to get back on the horse that had knocked me off. After about
10 minutes of standing there on the ridge, I looked down at the patiently
waiting Reiner and Jed and said, “ok, I’m going to keep going, keep the rope
pretty tight,” and then moved out of view on the other side of the ridge.

Looking back over the terrain we climbed through Day 3 of our attempt

The next cornice started
where the broken cornice ended, only this one was hanging over the other side
of the ridge. I kicked my feet over and over to get good purchase in the loose
snow before committing weight to it. Then the other foot. Swinging my ice tools
into the cornice 20 times I was able to hack a little trough for my body to
wedge through. I paused to assess the situation. I had shaped this cornice into
a big taco shell and I was the meat. If the cornice broke either way I was
looking at a 40 foot fall onto rocks and ice. There, squeezed in this Mark-made
snow slot, on an overhung cornice that could break at any moment, I froze. The
thought that went through my mind from that still small voice said, “That first
one was on the house, the next one is gonna cost ya.” I backed off. Shouted to
the guys that I’m going to rap off the ridge, to a ramp 300’ below. They said
nothing.

Reiner on one of the mixed pitches.

Into a building snowstorm
we rapped four times down the West side of the ridge to gain an easier snow
bench that formed the lower flanks of the ridge, near the feature known as the
Snow Dome. Snow was sloughing off the all slopes steeper than 40 degrees as we
made our way down. This sideways rappelling over loose snow spines is really
taxing. Once on the snow ramp, Reiner took us up to the base of a stable
looking serac wall where we dug another tent platform. 15 hours on the go
gained us about ¼ mile of linear progress. Ouch.

One of the best pitches we climbed in my opinion

I had spoken with Janelle
on the satellite phone the previous evening. We were trying to coordinate a
Shovel Traverse fly over. I told her that we would check in by midday to give a
progress update. With all the technical climbing and heavy snow, the packs
stayed on our backs and we didn’t get out the phone until 10 p.m. Jed hit the
button on the phone that sends an auto “we are okay” text with our coordinates
to Janelle, his wife, and three other people. The text did not go through to
Janelle’s phone. That night she lay in bed thinking that her husband was dead.
Not ideal. The next morning I called. She kept her composure for the first two
sentences and then started crying. Also, not ideal. I guess that is the shortcoming
of modern technology. It’s all good until it isn’t, causing your spouse to
think you might be dead because of an undelivered text.

View from Camp 2, hugged up against a serac wall.

That day we rested again
and pondered our situation. Three of the four times that we had touched a
cornice they had broken. We had roughly 200 more cornices to cross. The ice was
good 20 feet below the ridgeline, but we had to dig for every placement. From
there to the ridge crest the snow was loose “snice” (snow ice mixture) and
powder. Progress was slow. We had plenty of food and fuel. My head game was
rattled from the fall. Reiner was pretty checked out as well. Jed was still
charging.

the Seward Glacier below is 15 miles wide here!

The following morning we
packed up and climbed two short pitches back to the ridge. I took the pitch
that met up with the ridge. More vertical trench warfare. Once on the ridge I
waded through 10 inches of powder and another two feet of loose snow to get off
the cornice I was on and belayed the guys up. As they crested the ridge we
looked at one another and knew this was the end of the road if we wanted to
live to climb another day. There was not much discussion—the decision was
clear—it was almost a non-decision. Similar to deciding if you should drink
boiling tar, or jump in a dark pit full of angry rattlesnakes buck naked. We
took some somber “personal summit” photos and rapped down to our tent platform.

The start of the last pitch on our attempt. An hour of vertical trench warfare took us up 100ish feet.

Always the optimist,
Reiner, offered some encouraging sentiments. Jed and I didn’t have ears to hear
it. We were just pissed at this sucky situation. I thought of the following
analogy, which eased my troubled mind a little. Continuing on that route, in
those conditions, would be very similar to snowplowing down your 10 favorite
steep backcountry ski runs on a day with extreme avalanche hazard. It really
does not matter your ability, you’ll probably die.

Our "personal summit"

Now we were looking at a
4000+’ descent on technical terrain, under cornice and rock fall hazard…with
one 60 meter Sterling Photon rope. Each rappel would only
get us about 95’ down the mountain.

Heading down under full moon. Our Camp 1 snow tent platform notch can be seen on the ridge, seven-o'clock down from the moon, left of the the little peak. It took us hours to create.

At 11 p.m. we left our
camp and started down. The plan was to get in the icy runnel troughs and rappel
from V-threads the entire way. We took turns making the threads. Whoever was in
the lead moved as fast as possible. We ended up having to rappel 34 times, do a
bunch of down climbing, and near the of the descent, do some down
run-for-your-life climbing as the rocks started falling around us.

34 V-threads were required to bail. Several times we had to dig a lot to find good ice.

The second we were on terrain that was down-climbable we did so...forever.

Once back on the glacier,
out of the objective danger shooting range, I collapsed on the flat snow, not
so much out of physical fatigue but more from stress fatigue. Our attempt was
over. We did not die. In fact we were all perfectly fine. A true relief.

back on flat ground, alive and well.

We made our way back to
the original basecamp, where we waited on flyable weather for 3.5 days. It was
brutal waiting that long with nothing for entertainment but playing angry
birds, watching 12 episodes of The Big
Bang Theory (horribly awful TV show), cooking stovetop stuffing, developing
a new business plan, and feeling our failure. Yet, all in all, we were very
happy that we were unharmed and content that we had made the right choice to
bail.

Days of tent time. This is our home entertainment system. It's state of the art.

Mt. Logan will be there
another day. Will we return to try again? Definitely. If most of those cornices
fall off, if we have funding, if we get time off of work, and if we have a
strong team--absolutely. An anti-gravity belt would be nice too. Do I recommend
other people try this route? Nope. I’d go for the Thunderbird, Early Bird, the
East Ridge, or one of the numerous unclimbed lines on Mt. Logan.

Kickin' it on the Seward, wondering when the plane is coming.

As for what this means for the Smiley’s Project, I don’t know. Does it really
matter that we have climbed 44 of the 50 Classics? Is leaving 6 unclimbed any
different than leaving one unclimbed? Would it matter if we were able to climb
all 50? I don’t know.

What I do know is that it has been an amazing journey to get to this
point. I know that I want to keep climbing big mountains and push my physical
limits. Yet, I am typing this from Janelle’s hospital recovery room. She just
got hip surgery to fix the issue that caused her have to leave this expedition
early. Getting Janelle healed and fully functional is our top priority. It’s
going to cost over $10,000 in medical bills and 8-12 months of recovery to make
her well again. Both of these facts are real rain clouds on this dirtbagger’s
parade.